Destination Clearwater: 1987

Originally published here.

I turned 15 in 1987, so I couldn’t drive yet. I spent a lot of time in the front seat of my friend Chad’s maroon Ford-type car, heading to Rocky Horror at Countryside Mall, driving up and down a pre-roundabout Clearwater Beach, and taking trips to the airport to ride the trams back and forth and page each other over the loudspeaker.

Chad’s car actually belonged to his parents, but they let him drive it all the time. As the declared ringleader of our merry band of misfits, he spent hours chauffeuring us on his latest adventures. At the hands of teenagers, this marvel of midwestern engineering took one hell of a beating. The gray headliner sagged. The electric windows went up and down as the spirit moved them and not in response to us pressing the flaking metal switches on the heavy doors. The air conditioner had two levels: “Arctic Tundra” and “Good Luck With That.” Lumbar support? This was the 80s. We didn’t even know what that meant.

The radio worked, though, and that’s all I cared about, because this was the age of the hair band. Namely, Poison. Whenever “Talk Dirty To Me” came on the radio, we’d turn up the radio and turn into the greatest air band that ever lived.

Fast forward to 2012. I’m on the front side of 40. I’ve traded passenger-ship for a sporty red Volkswagen Rabbit, and I can plug my iPhone into the auxiliary jack and hear Poison at a moment’s notice. I still turn it up to an unsafe decibel level, but it doesn’t feel the same as when I was wholly at the mercy of a disc jockey’s mood. 

A couple of weeks ago my friend Kelli and I took a trip up to the Saint Somewhere Brewery in Tarpon Springs. We followed Alternate 19 back from the brewery, and just as we left the inky black sea to our right and traded Edgewater Drive for Fort Harrison, she turns up her radio. Within seconds, I hear it: that sliding, repeating guitar that pushes the music into a big intro, followed by an insistent, definite drum beat.

You know, I never seen you look so good…

By the time we pass Nicholson Street, I’ve gotten the band back together. Forget about deadlines and healthcare and power bills, I’m back in my tight-rolled acid washed jeans, shoulder pads and big hair. The green traffic lights and amber street lights blur back in time. Chanel No. 5 suddenly smells a lot like Love’s Baby Soft, and even though Kelli and I don’t smoke, I swear I can smell the reek of Chad’s Dorals in her leather-interior Envoy.

At the drive in, in the old man’s Ford, behind the bushes, until I’m screaming for more…

I’m a drummer and a vocalist. It takes little encouragement to get Kelli – restaurant owner, mother, and a beach suburbanite of sorts – to join me on vocals:

Down the basement, lock the cellar door, and baby…. and baby, talk dirty to me!

As the last of C.C. DeVille’s guitar work fades into the next glam rock song (apparently some sort of Hot Tub Time Machine wormhole exists between Edgewater Drive and Fort Harrison), we look at each other and giggle.

It must be my imagination, but for a second, the time it takes to blink, Kelli’s sleek, close-cropped hair sprouts a hairsprayed wall of bangs, uniform permed curls, and smells ever so slightly of Sun-In.

Hard Candy: I Hear You

I hear you.

Remember when you pulled me aside at the mullet toss last year and confided that you were disgusted with the city? I listened.

That time you called me up and asked just who was making the calls on council, anyway? Maybe I didn’t chime in and agree, but every word made an impact.

Last month, when you grabbed my shirt sleeve and said, “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute? What’s this nonsense about ‘boys against the girls’ on council?” I know I just nodded, but that night, on my couch, I turned the earful you gave me over and over in my mind.

When you sent me an e-mail in December and told me you didn’t want to stay in Gulfport if the incumbents won re-election? That made me think a lot about what Gulfport looks like to newcomers.

When you told me I wasn’t any good for the city just right then because I was listening too closely to a small group of unhappy people? I didn’t agree at all, but I respected you for telling me to my face, and the fact that you did so made me look closely at my own behavior.

When you gave me an earful about the vice mayorship and asked why some people hated Sam Henderson? When you asked me why no one was standing up to what you called “a small group of angry birds”? When I saw you at an ArtWalk and you railed against the people you said  pulled the strings for the sake of doing so? When you had tears in your eyes because you didn’t understand why no one seemed willing to speak up anymore as you watched what you, too, identified as a “small, loud group” use city council meetings and Facebook to lambast the Vice Mayor, the Mayor and the newest councilman? When you wondered why the paper didn’t do anything when someone called one of our readers a “homophobe” when you know he wasn’t? When you asked me why I didn’t do something about what you were certain were Sunshine Law violations? When you asked me after city council what happened to the “live and let live” mentality you valued so much in Gulfport? When you shook your head and told me you didn’t want anyone to know you felt this way, but the city had changed and you didn’t want to be a part of it anymore?

When you thanked me for standing up for you, even though I didn’t know I was?

I heard you. I heard all of you. It’s simply taken me a bit to process everything.

Your words, not mine, wrote this column. Everything I just mentioned has happened. You asked that I maintain your confidences, and I will never betray that, but my heart breaks for so many of you who seem beaten down, disgusted, and alone. I want you to see that you are not the only one with these fears who came to me and told me, in different words, the same story. Many of you think I’m speaking directly to you, and I am. Just not only to you.

You whispered to me the fears of Everyman. Some of you live in the Yacht and Country Club; some of you rent. Still others own small cottages north of Gulfport Boulevard. You are gay. You are straight. You have children. You never want children. You love your city. You want to be left alone. You fish. You hate to fish. You grew up here. You moved here five years ago. Yours is the voice that guides me. You are the reason I love this little city on the bay. You are angry.

You are scared.

You are not alone.

We are still Gulfport. YOU are still Gulfport. This is our city. Speak up. Stand together. An army of like-minded Gulfportians stands with you.

At least, that’s what I hear.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Destination Clearwater: A Waterbourne Persepctive

After a long (well, it felt long to me!) hiatus during which I finished my thesis and took my comprehensive exams, I've resumed writing the Destination Clearwater pieces for Clearwater Patch. They make me happy.

Here's this week's piece.

Kent State It Was Not

Some days I love my job. Yesterday was one of those days.

Now, here's where I could write about the new sports organization for kids in Gulfport and how watching the coaches with the kids made me feel some scrap of hope for a lost demographic. I could describe the great photo I took of a puppy licking a cherub-like toddler's face. I could tell you about the kid dressed as Batman in the fishing derby.

Yeah, that's so not how this blog entry is going to go down. No, I'm going to talk about the folks who staged a protest on Gulfport beach to protest the city's beach tobacco ban.

Let me assure you that I totally respect people's right to gather and protest, but I do have some serious doubts that outlawing smoking on a public beach violates any civil liberties. How is smoking on a beach more a civil liberty than being able to bring my dog down there (which is illegal in Gulfport) or enjoy a glass of wine while I watch the sunset (also illegal in Gulfport)? However, I'll hop off the soapbox long enough to tell you why I had so much fun at this smoke-in.

A group of people who feel, for whatever reason, that the ban on tobacco use violates either the law or their civil liberties staged their third smoke-in on Gulfport beach. The first one failed because the city hadn't put up signs letting people know about the ban, so the police refused to ticket the smokers. The second time a St. Pete attorney managed to get a ticket, but the city dropped the case when the attorney fought the ticket in court (please don't ask, I really don't want to go into it right now). Yesterday this determined group of like-minded folks trudged on out to the beach again. I showed up, ready to take a picture of the smokers receiving tickets. I even had visions of getting really lucky and seeing someone led away in handcuffs.

So, there I am, with one certain scene from Basic Instinct running through my head and Alice's Restaurant (my head is a dark and strange place) playing the soundtrack, waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

See, the thing is, no one called the police on the smokers, although the beach had plainly marked signs. Parents, couples, clubs – they were all out in force, but no one appeared bothered enough (or aware of the law enough) to call the police. No one.

Finally, one of the protestors called the police.

On themselves. 

It gets better.

After a bit – I'm guessing 20 minutes or so, but I don't really know – I see a police car pull up. Finally! Civil disobedients manned their posts, lit their smokes, and smiled in anticipation.

It was not to be.

Seems the officer was en route to another call but – because we're a small, waterfont-Mayberry type of town – he stopped by, friendly-like, to explain that the police would be by to ticket them once they finished working a rash of vehicle burglaries.

"Please, be patient," he asked the protestors. "I may not be the one coming back, but somebody will be here eventually."

It was a little like watching police work in Canada.

"Only in Gulfport do they send out a cop to apologize that no one's here to arrest you yet," one protestor said.

The police did return, although before the officer could get down to writing tickets, a sergeant spoke with the protestors.

"Look, we all know why we're here," he said. He explained that if everyone insisted on keeping their stogies lit, the paperwork alone would keep one officer from patrolling Gulfport for between two and three hours, and he explained that the police already had their hands kind of full, what with the vehicle burglaries and, you know, crime.

"Out of respect for my officers," the sergeant said, he would appreciate it if "one of you would like to take the hit" for the smoking ticket. The group conferred and agreed that, except for one of them, they would put out their smokes. The lone smoker – the same attorney as before – went peacefully over to the police car and received his ticket.

The other smokers either put out their cigarettes or – after asking the officer if they could do so legally – moved off the beach to finish their cigars.

Kent State it was not. No pepper spray, no riot regalia. No police brutality. The police are quite friendly.  Really, the Occupy movement should come to Gulfport.

As long as they don't smoke on the beach.

Paddledog

I'm taking my new paddleboard out for the first time today. I brought it out a few months ago, but I didn't use it, just let my professor's Tom Hallock's kid use it as kind of a "thank you" for helping me with my thesis and my writing. Tom, not his kid. See, this is why I needed his help – my modifiers are all wrong. Also, I tend to use passive voice a lot, which is weird because I had that bitch of a teacher my sophomore who failed me if I used on "to be" verb in a paper. For years I obsessively edited out passive voice, but apparently I got better. Yay me. Now my writing isn't as great as it should be.

But back to the board. I bought it for myself as a graduation present, but I bought it early because I found a great deal. Since I haven't used it before I finished everything, that totally isn't cheating. Today, though, I'm taking it out.

This post really isn't about paddleboarding. It's about me being done with my Master's, which is definitely cool and I am so glad I did it. Now, though, I have this thesis that's actually a book and it just needs some work before I send my introduction and some sample chapters to a publisher. I also want to set it up as serial installments on a blog as I go (that idea comes courtesy of Tom Hallock, and it's one of the reasons he's totally worth letting his kid use my paddleboard before I did. The other is that he's a kick ass writing teacher and has mad editing skills) but I'm still fleshing out the details.

That, however, can wait. See, Calypso's bored. She's been waiting for me to finish my damn thesis so we can go have some fun. I don't blame her a bit. I feel the same way, except my thesis was fun. For me. For a while. Until I got sick over it. Anyway, I'll post the link to the Finding Florida blog as soon as it's ready. For now, I owe a little dog some fun.

UPDATE: She had a great time. So did I. Here are a few photos of Calypso The Paddledog...